


tumblr ficlets collection

by woodlands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Tumblr Memes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodlands/pseuds/woodlands
Summary: he will make peace with the loss of what silver took from him. he will content himself with one half—a life with thomas—and forgive himself for not fighting for the whole / whatever silver’s telling himself they’re doing here, it isn’t training for a battle / they don’t talk about the past. sometimes they talk about the future. “i’m in between dreams right now,” silver says lightly, nodding his head back toward the bar.
Relationships: "Calico" Jack Rackham/Charles Vane, Anne Bonny/"Calico" Jack Rackham/Max, Anne Bonny/Max, Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Madi/John Silver
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. silverflint: rain, skin, sea

**Author's Note:**

> a collection of responses to tumblr memes and prompts. originally posted [here](https://halewoods.tumblr.com/tagged/mine). i'll update tags and characters if they change!

**anonymous asked**:

For the fic title post! "Rain, skin, sea", for black sails

-

the sky darkens quickly, the air around them on the cliffs turning from oppressive heat to heavy, humid electricity in anticipation of a storm. when the rain starts the wind does too, whipping the sea below into a frenzy, doing the same to silver’s unbound hair. flint picks up the pace in self-defense, setting a punishing rhythm of strike, parry, strike, parry, watching with approval the way silver has begun to anticipate his next move, muscles flexing under his skin.

by silent, mutual agreement they don’t let up when the downpour begins, turning the ground below them slick, an added challenge for silver on his crutch. flint doesn’t give him any quarter.

watching two points at once—flint’s cultivated that skill for years and it serves him well now, able to focus on the blade in silver’s hands and the slick of his wet hair both. but silver still hasn’t learned how to do this without concentrating, and it’s clear he’s slipping, technique getting sloppier, eyes on flint’s blade just a beat too long, trained on flint’s chest where his shirt has slipped sideways for a beat longer before flint disarms him again.

whatever silver’s telling himself they’re doing here, it isn’t training for a battle.

lightning flickers over the horizon, followed a moment later by the shotgun crack of thunder. silver’s eyes are dark and angry, when flint lays the blade like a kiss against his neck once again.


	2. silverflint: in between dreams

**iresolatio asked**:

"In between dreams" for the fake fic title ask game

-

james flint lives in a run-down resort town in jersey, with nothing much to show for himself: a poorly-paying job he hates at a surf shop on the boardwalk, a room at a shitty motel for $30 a week, a dishonorable discharge from the navy, ptsd for his troubles.

nearly every night he wakes up drenched in sweat, panicking, desperate to escape the nebulous horrors that fill his dreams, needing to get out of the stale, dirty motel room. he goes for walks, half-asleep and fully pissed off. they usually lead him down to the water, where the noise of the waves helps drown out the nightmares he can’t seem to otherwise escape.

john silver, making drinks at one of those walk-up bars, takes his break whenever he spots flint down by the water in the moonlight. flint doesn’t always notice him immediately, lost in his own mind, and silver stands next to him until he does. he saw flint at the corner store yesterday, and in fluorescent lighting he’d looked like an entirely different creature, pale somehow despite the tan, freckles on full display.

they don’t talk about the past. sometimes they talk about the future. “i’m in between dreams right now,” silver says lightly, nodding his head back toward the bar. flint looks at him, then away, back toward the water.

they have sex in the apartment silver rents above the bar. it only happens once. flint shakes so hard silver tries to stop it, horrified, thinking—but flint just pulls him back down, whispering, “no, i want it.” they fall asleep curled around each other afterward and flint sleeps straight through until noon.

when he shows up on the beach again two nights later, silver chances a hand on his shoulder. flint doesn’t shake him off.


	3. flinthamilton: all of me, and the sea

**a-gay-coded-villain asked**:

Made up fic title: All of Me and the Sea

-

the list of things james has sacrificed over the years is endless. the list of things he has lost is very, very short.

when silver takes the war from him it is a loss. it settles deep and heavy in his body, a grief that will stay with him, rest its cold fingers on his throat. but now, with thomas—miraculously unbroken thomas—sitting quietly across from him in the cottage they share, or sinking into him with a cry on a sun-dappled morning, or handing him a cup of tea the way miranda used to, james wants to believe that perhaps silver was right. captain flint, as an identity, was forged of love, tempered in its flames, hammered into shape by it; and love could be its melting down, too. its—what had silver said? its unmaking.

in his more desperate moments, when he catches a glimpse of the scars at thomas’ wrist or watches him flinch at the crack of a riding crop on the road outside, he wants to believe he would have chosen this if silver had allowed him the charity of decision. that he would have given up the war, his war, madi’s revolution, would have given up nassau, silver, _captain flint_ —would have chosen to add all these things to his list of sacrifices in exchange for the sweet smile that breaks over thomas’ face in the morning, the dance of his fingers on james’ skin once again.

but the truth, when the rage inevitably dies down, is this: it was so easy to break thomas out of the plantation in savannah. and where the thomas he’d known in london had been hopeless at fencing and worse with a shot, soft to the touch and naïve enough to think violence was an affliction that could be cured, _this_ thomas had fought his way out of savannah alongside james with a ferocity that came from having been beaten down and having _survived_. this thomas would not have made james choose.

he is landlocked now, surrounded by green, growing things and warm, accepting dirt. he will learn to live with his grief, the acute pain slowly beginning to dull. he will make peace with the loss of what silver took from him. he will content himself with one half—a life with thomas—and forgive himself for not fighting for the whole: thomas, and all of himself—flint and mcgraw both—and the war, the revolution, the dark, and the deep, restless, burning sea.


	4. last night on earth

**calamitys-child asked** :

Fic title prompt - last night on earth, black sails?

-

i’ve been thinking about this all day and i can’t decide what way to go! **IS IT** :

rackhamvane.

-

college sports teams au in which the hamilton u walruses and the UNPI rangers are bitter rivals on the field and off. tasked with throwing a rager that will outmatch the one the walruses throw annually on the friday before graduation, calico jack conceives of The Last Night On Earth, a no-holds-barred, cleared out the kegs from all the liquor stores in town, disgusting sticky house party deejayed by 3L3AN0R (her spotify playlists have thousands of followers) and, crucially, attended by the walrus women’s field hockey team (thanks to anne’s pull with their captain max, who’ll cross party lines for her girlfriend). he winds himself so tight in preparation— _what do you MEAN you only bought three kegs, slade, what the FUCK do you bring to this **fucking** team?—_that the first mouthful of vodka soda nearly knocks him flat on his ass.

“three years of ranger parties and you still can’t hold your liquor,” charles says fondly, hands on jack’s hips, ostensibly to keep him upright. what jack’s doing, drink sloshing over them both and his free hand waving through the air, can’t honestly be called dancing. he’s grinning down at charles and his teeth glow blue in the blacklight he’d insisted on. he’s moving like he’s never heard of a drum before. he’s not even keeping rhythm with _himself_.

it’s common knowledge that if jack makes it to five drinks he will, inevitably, attempt to kiss charles. tonight, for a moment, charles thinks about letting him. but instead he knocks jack’s solo cup from his hand and steers him, hands on his shoulders, through the crowd until they find anne, drapes jack over her. “do something about this, will you?” he shouts over the music.

jack wraps his arms around her neck and smiles happily. “i did this,” he announces, leaning fully on anne, “do i—do i know how to throw a party, or do i know how to throw a party?”

he’s asleep before the apocalypse countdown, his pièce de résistance, and doesn’t rouse when the fireworks nearly set the roof on fire, barely stirs when cops show up to bust the party. anne falls asleep next to him and charles and max find them later, curled up like puppies in the pale dawn light.

the next day, hungover as all hell, jack still makes it across the stage at graduation. the team hoots and hollers extra loud just to watch him wince. when he sits back down charles hands him the sleeve of saltines he’d hidden under the polyester gown and glows warm when jack musters up a queasy, pleased smile.

**-**

**OR DO WE GO WITH** :

madisilver

-

very literal interpretation feat. astronaut!madi.

“no,” she says, sitting straight-backed and proud behind the quarantine partition, “i have every confidence in the dedication and integrity of every engineer, mechanic, scientist, and fellow astronaut on this team. there is, of course, a healthy amount of fear. but i have no doubts about the mission. the work we are doing here, the work we have already done here—it helps me assuage any anxiety i might feel about liftoff.”

she sits through the barrage of questions with a patience and grace silver has grown used to seeing her take off at the end of the day. he loves it, loves being the person who can watch her deconstruct her careful public self and slip into the comfortably private. loves that he gets to see her drop popcorn on herself when she takes too big a handful and can’t fit it all in her mouth. loves that he is the one to wrap his arms around her at the end of a long day. loves that he’s the one to wrap ice in a tea towel when she stubs her toe on the wonky doorframe of her bedroom for the third time this month.

“i wish you were here,” she confesses later, sounding tired over the phone. silver is sitting slumped on his couch, draft open on his laptop only half-written, unable to focus on anything. he’s too consumed with the videos he’s watched over and over again online of failed launches, of fire, of explosions that fill the sky with debris.

they should have quarantined together. but he hadn’t wanted her to feel trapped. a truly idiotic decision.

“me too,” he says, instead of the words he can feel on the tip of his tongue, poisonous. _don’t leave me here on earth without you. don’t go where i can’t follow._ “what’s a few million miles, anyway? chump change. not even in different time zones.”

it’s a dumb joke and he’s told before. neither of them laughs.

**-**

**OR IS IT PERHAPS???** :

silverflint.

-

the eve of battle. silver thinks: _whatever godforsaken well of luck i’ve been drinking from has run dry_. flint thinks: _if i don’t die tomorrow it’s not for lack of trying_.

they fuck with an angry desperation in the dark. neither attempts to stifle their cries. silver bites him on the shoulder so hard he draws blood, a foolish mistake that will slow flint down tomorrow in hand-to-hand combat; he presses bruises into silver’s hips in retaliation. they’ll be indistinguishable from any of the myriad contusions traced over his skin when the battle’s over tomorrow. if they both survive, flint plans to map them all.

of course, everyone knows you don’t come back from the end of the world. you drop off the edge. you cease to be. pretty soon, no one remembers your story. you cease to have been.

silver thinks: _it shouldn’t have been you_. flint thinks: _it shouldn’t have been me_.


	5. vanerackham: in which jack gets an illegal pool party for his birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting to feel weird about cross-posting (is it obnoxious to post these ficlets???) but i'm committed! i want an archive of them all in one place! it's what my brain needs!

**booksnchocolate asked**:

To the surprise of *checks notes* absolutely no one, I wish you would write a fic where Vane and Jack are in any situation at all, and pining hopelessly for each other, probably some modern au involving Jack's terrible scarf collection, because everything you write with them is fuckin gold t b h <3 (it's takethisroad btw!)

-

“Fuck you, Jack,” says Charles, and Jack thinks, _if only you would_.

He props himself up on an elbow and waves a hand in Charles’ direction, remembering a little too late that he’s holding a G&T. It goes everywhere. Charles shoots him an annoyed look.

“My point,” Jack says, “Is that—“

Charles unfolds himself, leonine, from the chaise longue and takes two striding steps towards the pool. He’s a graceful swimmer but isn’t bothering, and water goes everywhere when he dives in.

The backdrop of the McMansion looming above the pool is ludicrously ugly, lit from below with spotlights to highlight how overwhelmingly beige the thing is. But the lights are a blessing in other ways, laying strokes of red-gold paint over Charles’ body.

He thinks about going in after him. The setting sun has done nothing to alleviate the oppressive heat of an Arizona summer and his skin is sticky with sweat and stolen liquor. But the view from the pool deck—Charles Vane, more than half-naked in just his black boxer briefs, floating luxuriously, lit from below by the underwater lights and above by the illuminated fake waterfall at the other end of the pool—well, he decides, that view is too nice to pass up.

He lets himself look his fill. Charles has his eyes closed, but he can probably still tell that Jack can’t tear himself away from the planes of his stomach as they dip in and out of the water, his hair spreading out like a halo around his head.

“Got you something,” Charles says, surprising Jack. He’s drifting towards the splash marks he made on the stones. It’s hard to hear him over the bubble of the waterfall, which Jack has changed his mind about. It’s tacky as shit.

Jack takes a sip of what remains of his G&T. “Did you?”

A beat. Maybe that’s all Charles is going to offer. Maybe whatever he got Jack he left on a table at a roadside bar for some other poor sod to discover. Maybe he wants Jack to ask for it.

And Jack might. If he has another drink.

Charles slips below the surface of the water, which, for a moment, grows still. When he resurfaces the flickering of light and shadow erupts in chaos again. He looks like he should be on fucking Baywatch, water streaming down his body, hair slicked back from his forehead. From the smirk on his face, he knows exactly what Jack’s thinking right now.

Jack drains the cocktail in his hand, clears his throat as quietly as he’s able. Somewhere in the distance, a truck lays on its horn.

Reaching the side of the pool, Charles rises up to fold his arms over the edge, resting his chin on the back of his wrists. Jack can just make it out when he raises an eyebrow and jerks his chin up in the direction of his discarded jeans.

Jack drains his drink. “If you made me a friendship bracelet, I’m sorry, Charles, but I won’t wear it. I can only assume it would clash with my outfit.” He waves a hand down at himself, clad in a pair of boxers and a floor-length magenta robe he’d found in the master suite upstairs. He’d been tempted to put on the Ugg boots from the mud room, too, but it’s just too hot out. He went with the crocs instead.

It’s a scarf. A truly ugly one, at that, an unfriendly brown paisley monstrosity. Someone has sewn a slip stitch all the way around in a neon orange. Terrible. Disgusting. “I love it,” he says, and means it.

From the water, Charles grins a slow, predatory smile. “Do you?”

“It won’t match with anything I own. It’s perfect.”

The closet in the master bedroom had a whole drawer of scarves, carefully coiled. Most of them were Hermès. He pocketed a few but they’ll all get pawned, now that Charles has picked this one out for him. He’s always been sentimental.

He takes a few steps and joins Charles, perching on the edge of the pool, thigh pressed against the sharp point of Charles’ damp elbow. The scarf catches on the dry skin of his fingers when he runs it between them. “Where’d you get it?”

Charles shrugs. Jack lets himself reach out, run the tips of his fingers over the swell of his shoulder. Even in the dim light it’s impossible to miss the way Charles lets his eyes fall shut on the exhale.

“Happy birthday, Jack.”

They’ll probably get arrested for this. Jack spotted three wifi-enabled security cameras just in the front of the house. He figures they’ve got another twenty minutes, maybe, before sirens begin to wail.

That’s twenty minutes to knock his bare toes against Charles’ hip under the water, to drink another G&T, to thread the scarf around Charles’ tanned throat and let his fingers brush the skin there.

To pretend it’s an accident. Or maybe—to own up to it. To see where that takes them.

  


**takethisroad** keeps sliding into my DMs with extremely valid takes so HERE WE ARE FOR MORE:

Charles makes a squelching noise when he slides into the driver’s seat, and when Jack spares a minute to look over at him, the look on his face is a rare one, of embarrassed amusement. He snorts when Jack breaks into breathless laughter. “Come on, hurry the fuck up,” he says, starting the engine and helping Jack shovel their prizes into the space behind the seats. Then they’re off.

Jack can’t move very well because he caught the tail of the bathrobe in the door when he slammed it shut, so he wrestles one arm out in order to lean across Charles to tug on the seatbelt. Charles lets him, even moves his left arm obligingly so it’s out of the way. Sometimes, the high of a semi-successful raid is enough to make him acquiescent, at least enough to let Jack take care of him a little.

He buckles his own seat belt and collapses back against the seat, closing his eyes for a second and catching his breath. The sirens in the distance aren’t catching up. Charles had made sure to peel off toward the desert, leaving tire marks, before doubling back past the house. Seems to have worked.

“Got plans tonight?” Charles asks over the roar of the engine. He’s needed a new muffler for months but Jack’s pretty sure he just likes the sound of it, how obnoxious it is.

“Never do,” Jack says brightly.

Charles glances over at him. His hair is a mess, still actively dripping, flopped over on itself. Jack has to sit on his fingers to keep himself from reaching over to fix that, too.

“Just thought you might have lined someone up for the night. It being your birthday.”

“Anne’s outta town.”

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant.” Jack hasn’t been with anyone since Anne, except Anne, occasionally, when she and Max ask him to join. It’s always nice, but never what he wants. Took him awhile to figure out what it was that was missing.

He glances at Charles’ fingers loose on the steering wheel. He’s since figured it out.

They pull over on a remote stretch of road so Jack can climb out, pull the dark plastic off that had been obscuring the license plates. If somebody pulls them over now they’ll just look like two wet guys in a messy car. _Nothing to see here, officer_ , Jack thinks. _Nothing at all, just a little friendly banter and Charles wrapping his hand around my ankle back there_ —

God, he needs to stop thinking about that.

Back in the truck, he shrugs the rest of the robe off and dumps it behind the seat, too. The warm, arid air coming in through the windows feels good on his damp skin.

“Come home with me,” Charles says. Simply, lightly. Not weighted at all.

Jack swallows. “You don’t have plans?”

“Well.” The smile that slides over Charles’ mouth makes him shiver. “I’m trying to make some, Jack.” He’s still looking at the road.

If he looked at Jack right now, Jack’s pretty sure he’d just fall to fucking pieces.

_Happy birthday to me_ , he thinks. Ties the scarf over the gear shift. “You got any beer at home?”

“Always,” Charles says, still so fucking lightly, like he just means the beer. Not the two of them.

Jack smiles just a little, feeling buoyant. He thinks he’s so hard to read, but Jack knows better: Charles Vane is an open fucking book.


	6. silverflint: given

> is there anything more tender and gentle and breathtaking than silver reverently whispering _james_ for the first time?

OR CONSIDER that flint’s hands gripping the collar of his shirt are rough like sharkskin when silver covers them with his own, trying to gentle him. “what the _fuck_ were you thinking,” flint mutters. his eyelids are heavy with anger and something else silver doesn’t want to examine too closely.

silver runs his hands down the back of flint’s until they can encircle his wrists, tug a little so flint’s knuckles aren’t so sharp against his chest. “they were going to kill you.”

flint’s a reckless man, but silver’s never considered the possibility that the end goal of his stupid bravery might not be survival. right now, watching the way flint’s mouth tightens, something clicks into understanding.

before he can talk himself out of it, he pulls again on flint’s arms. “let go.” and flint does, and silver brings one hand up to his mouth, presses his lips to the blue vein at the inside of flint’s wrist, where the skin is somehow still pale, and tenderly thin.

flint is close enough that the shiver this elicits runs through both of them. “ _john_ ,” he whispers, and silver finds he can’t take his eyes off of him, can’t tear his mouth from his skin.

“john,” flint repeats, gripping silver’s collar again with his free hand. this time, it’s a gentle movement. his eyes slip shut. he lets silver touch him carefully, softly, reverently. he gives him the gift of his name in return.


	7. silverflint: em oh you ess ee

**booksnchocolate asked** :

He's pulled from the comforting embrace of sleep by a hoarse shout. For the first sentence prompts!

-

the kitchen, when he stumbles out of his bedroom, is brightly lit, the ugly fluorescent lighting harsh on silver’s skin, all three hundred miles of it. “before you say anything,” silver begins from his perch on top of the goddamned table, “i think you and i can both agree that we would not be in this position if you’d have let me get a cat.”

the mouse makes a mad dash across the kitchen floor, and james sighs. “no, we can’t agree on—listen—if you weren’t such a fucking drama queen, silver, _i’d still be asleep right now_!”

he catches the mouse and releases it back outside, stands on the stoop in the cool air, tries to stop thinking about silver sleeping in his fucking boxer briefs, resigns himself to the fact that—ugh!—they will probably have to get a cat after all.

-

a coda:

silver is still crouched on the table when he comes back inside.

“you know mice can climb things, right?” james says.

“what?” silver’s face goes pale. “wait— _what_?!”

james turns back towards his bedroom to hide a smile.


	8. annejackmax: black sails heist au! black sails heist au!

**calamitys-child asked** : Opening sentence: Times like these, it really doesn't pay to be a coward.

-

The sentiment is more literal tonight than it’s ever been before. He’s never been accused of bravery, but as he scrambles over the crushed stone and broken rebar toward the hole blown through the wall of the safe, he thinks: the line between a brave man and a coward is thin, and made of 24 karat, solid fucking gold.

Max tosses empty duffels to him over the debris. “Pick up the pace, Rackham,” she hisses, because he’s frozen, bags in hand, staring at the stacks of money and the loose bills still fluttering from the blast.

They clear the safe in just a few minutes, working quickly, the bank alarm beginning to wail. Beside him Max starts to giggle, an exhilarated, disbelieving sound. The duffels are heavy. They don’t bother with the loose money littering the floor, a decision that feels like the most extravagant thing they’ve ever done.

Anne’s waiting in the getaway car, pistol cocked. She looks disappointed to see them. “Cheer up,” Jack says, leaning over to kiss her, open-mouthed and greedy, “We’ll find another opportunity for you to shoot somebody.”

In the distance, a police siren. In the back seat of the Cadillac, surrounded by bags of money and reeking of explosives, Max kicks her feet up on the arm rest and nudges Anne with her toes. “The sooner we are away from here, the sooner I can fuck you both on a pile of hundred dollar bills,” she points out.

Jack grins. Anne turns red, hands Jack the pistol, and peels away from the curb into the rainswept night.


	9. maxanne: going, going, gone

**anonymous asked** : going, going, gone

-

 **going** : anne’s beloved has no interest in the role of sailor’s wife, in waiting by the shore for the walrus to appear on the horizon. she has a kingdom to run: trade to oversee; land disputes to resolve; taxes to collect; a neighboring kingdom of escaped slaves with whom she must work to establish a mutually beneficial relationship. when anne sets out to sea with jack, it is with max’s ring on her finger and max’s trust in her pocket. these things will not keep her afloat if she is tossed into the sea. but they will keep her from drowning in the mire that overtakes her mind sometimes, memories of starvation and beatings and abuses she will no longer name, of the fear of an eternity without love.

jack is here, which helps. his love for her is steadfast, and when she is missing max he will put an arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head, just like he used to. she doesn’t have to tell him. he just knows.

leaving nassau for the thrill of the hunt is bittersweet in a way it never was before max. she knows she will never have both at the same time, max and the sea. but when the ocean has had its fill of anne, max will be standing faithfully on the docks. it doesn’t matter to anne that she comes to the shore when the ship is sighted and not a moment before, because she doesn’t need max to wait. she just needs her to be there when she returns, to accept her into her arms.

 **going** : jack stretches his legs out, boots propped up on max’s desk, watching the two of them watch each other. it is always like this, whenever they get back. for all of anne’s gruff exterior, she soaks max up until she is fairly glowing with it. max, too, is not able to hide her delight in anne, at least not here, the three of them holed up in max’s office, candles guttering in the sconces.

the small smile from anne draws out a smile from him in response. she’s happier than he’s ever seen her. that max can provide this for her, that jack can contribute in any small way—it settles like a blanket over him.

“come find me later,” jack says to anne, who has reached over to take max’s hand almost shyly despite the ten years between them, “i want to go over some things before launch tomorrow.”

“might be awhile,” anne says. her grin is sly.

jack catches max’s eye and they smile fondly at one another. “i’ll leave you to it,” he says, reaching across the desk to knock anne’s hat back a little, so she doesn’t have to adjust it when she kisses max.

he whistles on his way out.

 **gone** : in the end, max’s empire is easy to dethrone. it’s two bags packed, a warm kiss to jack’s weathered cheek. it’s a horse tied up in the alley behind the inn, a cloak over her shoulders replacing the yoke of leadership she’s born for so long. it’s the journey she would have taken forty years ago if eleanor had made a different choice.

with the moon shimmering on the rolling sea and anne manning the tiller, she smiles. so many different lives she might have lived, if other choices had been made. and yet—given the chance, she would choose none other than this life. this future with anne. nassau behind them in the darkness.


	10. vanerackham: "you've got to be kidding me."

**Anonymous asked** :

Fiiiiirst sentence!!! Jack is looking at him like Charles has somehow invaded his closet and personally torn up every vintage jacket he owns. "You've got to be kidding me."

-

Charles summons up one of his blandest looks, equal parts apologetic and smug, and Jack groans, right on cue. “You know what? Never mind. I know you aren’t kidding because you don’t have a sense of humor. Fucking hell.”

So it’s with very little convincing that he gets Jack in the pickup and takes off, doing eighty-five on the highway, windows down. Jack’s complaining ratchets up a notch every time they fly past a speed trap, clearly pissed that none of them give chase. “How you manage to get through life scott-free—“

They both know that’s an exaggeration, but Charles doesn’t call him on it. He does reach across the center console and run a finger down Jack’s wrist and over his knuckles. It shuts him up, like it always does when Charles shows him affection. Whoever kicked Jack when he was a puppy will die a very violent death, if he ever finds out who it was.

“If we still have jobs tomorrow it will be a fucking miracle,” Jack says, tugging at his hair again, a losing battle against the open windows.

“Shitty fucking tips anyway,” Charles says, smiling in the dark, one hand draped over the steering wheel and the other drawing slow circles over the inside of Jack’s wrist, cool night air buffeting them both, the open road ahead of them for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.


	11. silverflint, flinthamilton: cramp

**asterofthevoid asked**:

Prompt: Silver gets a leg cramp at the worst possible time

-

It’s a resplendent autumn afternoon, bright and clear and crisp in a very New England sort of way. Every tree in the yard is ablaze with color—reds, yellows, golds—and the pumpkins dot the little patch by the road. Thomas can hear James out back, splitting wood for the fire. A flock of birds beats steadily southward, spread out in a vee formation, organized like a regiment of avian soldiers. The goat is making thorough work of the grass, the chickens are hunting for scraps, and on the path from the road, there is a man hunched over, evidently in a great deal of pain, panting hard.

Thomas approaches, yelling for James, taking care to leave some distance between the man on the ground and himself. He’s dressed in the garb of an outlaw, but his clothing is clean, his mustache neatly trimmed. The muffled sounds he’s making are enough to remind Thomas, briefly, of a cell mate in Bethlem. He shakes the thought away.

“Sir—“ he begins, adopting what he hopes is a soothing tone. James stops him from saying anything more, appearing at his side, out of breath, eyes worried, hands gentle on Thomas’ forearms as he checks him over. When he finally notices the man on the ground in front of them, he goes pale, freezes.

His voice is haunted when he speaks. “Silver.”

The man looks up, face crumpled in pain, hands squeezing at the thigh of his good leg. He looks younger than Thomas imagined. He’s staring at James, eyes blank with pain, mouth pinched shut but unable to fully mute the sounds he’s making.

Thomas circles a hand around James’ wrist. A warning.

“God fuck,” James says, and sinks to his knees, reaching for John Silver’s leg. Thomas is intimately aware of the careful way James uses his hands to touch—but with Silver they are hard and rough, fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh without mercy. Silver cries out immediately, shocked and in pain, and then his eyes slam shut. “God-fucking- _damn_ you, Silver,” James says. “You absolute fucking _shit_.”

Silver is sobbing, now, tears tracing his cheeks and disappearing into the moss of his beard below, one hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose as if to hide a vulnerability. It’s very clear to Thomas, standing a few paces back, that this is the weeping of both a pained man and a guilty one. He thinks about the stories James told him, of a man whose sacrifice left him half-mad with fever, who lay in the captain’s quarters of a stolen treasure galleon and let James rediscover his ability to tend to someone who was not Miranda.

“Yes,” James had said, months ago, when Thomas asked him about love. They’d been curled up on the rug before the fire, despite the summer heat, and James had looked distant for a little while. “I think so. But it didn’t matter, in the end.”

It matters now. Thomas steps forward, lays a hand on James’ shoulder, feeling the muscles shift as he works. Silver opens his eyes and looks up at him for the first time. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Silver,” he says. “Will you be staying long?”

Silver’s brow furrows, confused. “I don’t—“

James digs his thumbs in viciously and Silver howls. Thomas rubs his own thumb over James’ throat, soothing and slow.

“I’m sorry,” Silver chokes out, curling in towards them. James lifts his head to look at Thomas, a question writ plain on his face underneath the anger and the pain mirroring Silver’s.

“Fuck,” James says again. Silver has reached a hand down to his leg, trying to gentle James’ movements, desperate for something to abate.

And James lets his hands release their work only when he makes his decision, grinding his forehead into Silver’s, one hand reaching back to find Thomas’ ankle. He bites his kiss into Silver’s gasping mouth.

The tilt of his brows, the deepening flush on his damp cheeks, tell Thomas everything he needs to know about John Silver. Despite the differences in their coloring, the abundance of Silver’s curls and beard and heavy, dark clothing a contrast to his own fair hair and clean-shaven face—at least in this, broken apart and put back together by James, it is like looking in a mirror.

“I’m sorry,” Silver says again when they separate. James is still angry, but he casts about to hand Silver his crutch before he climbs wearily to his feet.

“Come inside,” Thomas says, as James stomps back toward the house, “He made apple pie yesterday. And you look like you could use a drink. I know I do.”


End file.
